


retrieved

by Cypherr



Series: Hollow [16]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Promise, Stockholm Syndrome, Vilbur, Villain Wilbur Soot, dadza to the rescue, is still present tho, its okay tho y'all, tommy just wants some stability y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27873810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cypherr/pseuds/Cypherr
Summary: Wilbs said he wasn't going to leave. He promised. Everyone else always leaves but Wilby said he wouldn't. Wilbur promised him he wouldn't leave. Why did everyone always lie to him?
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Hollow [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958773
Comments: 15
Kudos: 416





	retrieved

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY I FUCKING SPEEDRAN THIS SHIT HOLY FUCK. WROTE THIS AND THE NEXT PART DURING CLASSES TODAY  
> also sorry this took so long lmao i have been going THROUGH IT  
> also this is posted at the same time as the next part because they're companion pieces

"Wilby where are we?" He whimpered, blindfold back over his eyes and lead binding his wrists once more. He could feel the breeze in his hair, even from where he had tucked himself under Wilbur's chin. Wilbur had told him that they had to go somewhere and then he had bound him like he was before. He was scared, to be frank. Was Wilbs going to leave him?

"Y-you're not gonna leave me, right?" He whispered, clutching Wil's sweater tighter.

"Never. I promised, didn't I?" Wilbur chuckled, pressing gentle kisses all over his face. He hated it. He hated that it made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He was sixteen, he shouldn't be babied like this. He shouldn't _want_ to be babied like this. (But he was tired. So, so tired. He didn't want to act tough anymore. He wanted the childhood that had been stolen from him.)

"Love you, Wilbs," he mumbled, fully relaxing in his brother's grip. (When Tommy was good, Wilbur never hurt him. When Tommy was good, Tommy could have Wilbs instead of President Soot.) He was cold, but Wilbs was here; he'd be alright. The hand that carded through his hair with careful motions and the fingers that tapped a random tune into his side nearly killed him to sleep. (He was safe. He was safe and that made him happy.)

"Wilbur." That was a new voice. A voice Wil didn't like if his tightened grip was anything to go by. Did Wilbur lie to him? Was Wilbur going to hive him away? Wilbs said he wasn't going to leave. He _promised_. Everyone else always leaves but Wilby said he wouldn't. _Wilbur promised him he wouldn't leave. Why did everyone always lie to him?_

He wasn't paying attention to the outside world anymore, too caught up in his own head. (It was easy to do that when your only real sense was touch.) He could vaguely feel the crushing grip around his middle and the hot tears that soaked his blindfold and maybe, on the very edges of his awareness, he could hear shouting. He could feel the grip around his middle left, and when he was flipped around, back to Wilbur's chest like he was back- _back in the trees_ , though. He could feel the cold iron of the blade pressed against his throat. (again. Always again. Did he have no tragic firsts left?)

"I was good, Wilby- I swear! I swear!" He sobbed, trying his best to press himself back into Wilbur's frame, away from the dagger. He had been good... right? Did he upset Wil by crying? Did he ask for too much? Where did he go wrong? (The tears only fell faster.)

"Shh, shh, you're okay," Wil soothed, pressing a gentle kiss to the space just above his ear. "I'm only doing this to protect you, okay? If I have to kill you, it's so we can still be together." Another kiss. "You're being such a good boy, Toms. I love you."

He sniffled, trying to stem the flow from his eyes and gather his thoughts from their wild panic. (Wilbur loved him. ~~He didn't.~~ He was a good boy- a behaved boy. ~~He shouldn't have to be.~~ Wilbur wouldn't leave him. ~~He should really get away~~. Wilby would never harm him. ~~He would. He does. He had. It hurts.~~ ) The blade against his threat still terrified him, but he could behave- for Wilbur. (He had to if he didn't want it to hurt.)

All he could focus on was the cool metal and trying to keep his breathing even. (Trying not to flinch was Wilbur yelled right next to his ear.) He wasn't even sure who he was yelling at- why he was yelling. What was happening? He wanted to go home. (He hated shouting- the kind that was angry and biting. It was always so loud and grating. It made him want to claw his ears off and rip his teeth out.) Instead, he tried to keep his attention on the hand in his hair and Wil's warm breath next to him. He could do this. He would be good, and then everything could return to normal. He and Wilby would be together and he wouldn't have to fight anymore.

Then, the dagger was digging into his throat, drawing thick droplets of blood and he _keened_. (He didn't want to die again.) But, it never got any farther than that because suddenly Wilbur was gone and he could feel nothing but the damp grass below him as he shook and sobbed, helplessly bound and hopelessly sightless.

He could hear his own brain screaming at him, blocking out the rest of the world. The only thing that got through the violent haze was the pig of his comm that was in Wilbur's pocket- _was,_ because the only thing that ever dinged was Wilbur's death messages, which meant- which meant that he was alone again and Wilby had left him- had been _taken_ from him.

"W-ILby," he cried, voice cracking with the strain. He wanted his brother back. He was so cold. Wil had been so _kind_ for the first time in _so long_ and he wanted him _back_. He curled up further, feeling the dirt from the ground below smear on his skin and clump in his hair, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He sobbed quietly to himself, his neck stinging from the movement and his muscles ached as he continued to tremble, body tense and locked up.

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, talons gently scraping him through his shirt, but it only brought a whine and more tears. It wasn't _Wilby_. Wilbs didn't have claws.

"Not Wilbs. Not Wilbs. Not Wilbs," he chanted, muttering under his breath as he tried his best to get away from the mysterious person that had taken his Wilby away. His chest stuttered as he choked on his own breath.

"Shh, Toms- breathe." A light, airy voice rang from behind him. The hand was in his hair now, combing through his muddied locks and gently scratching his scalp. It felt like when his dad would comfort him after a nightmare when he was young. It only made him sob harder, leaning into the motions despite despising himself for it.

"It's alright, Toms. I'm here now."

"Not- not Wilby. Want- want Wilby," he stuttered, breaking into a heaving coughing fit afterward. There was no response other than a single nail cutting the soaked fabric over his eyes in two, letting it slide to the ground.

It was dark out, only lit by the scattering of stars in the sky and the minimal light of the crescent moon. They were in the field Wilbur had taken him from to begin with, and he could see a couple of cornflowers just a little ways away from his face. The hands moved to his sides, pulling, and he let himself be manhandled into laying on his back, knowing there was no way he could fight back. He was met with his father's kind face, eyes gentle and warm despite their cool blue hue, and a patient smile- an upturn of the lips, really- graced his pale, unshaven face, all shadowed by that familiar green and white striped bucket hat. He continued to stare, as if he was in a trance, as Phil carefully severed the leads that bound his wrists and ankles, whining pitifully when his hands brushed across his chafed and bruised skin.

He reached out impulsively after his wrists had been freed, grasping his dad's backless tank with a shivering, unsteady hand, still wide-eyed and unbelieving. Phil's hair had grown longer since he had last seen him, in the days long before he'd left for the Dream SMP, now brushing the tops of his shoulders. His winged ears twitched, blue-tinted primary feathers giving away his calm facade.

"Dad?" He whispered, still unsure if all of this was some kind of fucked up, desperate hallucination.

"I'm here, Toms." And with those words, a new wave of tears fell, lip trembling, nose red and running, and breath hitching in his throat. He wailed, clutching onto his dad's shirt as if his life depended on it when he scooped him up in his arms. He felt so small, face buried in the crook of Phil's neck despite the fact that he was actually taller than the man. The hand returned to his hair nails soothing in their repeated scraping.

"Let's go home to Tech, okay?"

"Wan' Wilby," he whimpered, mind still caught up in thoughts of his ~~kind~~ older brother.

"I know, bubba." He flinched at the nickname, mind flashing back to the days in the White House with President Soot. Phil pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, humming softly. 

They stayed like that for a while- enough for the moon to travel quite a ways across the sky- as Tommy slowly began to calm.

" 'm tired, dad," he slurred, slumping further into his father's arms. The adrenaline had left him by that point, leaving him feeling muddled and heavy.

"Just stay with me a little while longer, m'kay?" He nodded sluggishly, eyes lidded with the struggle of keeping them open.

"Just until we get back to the White House." With that said, Phil scooped him up, an arm supporting his back and one under his knees, and stood, carrying him like he had been so often recently. He felt the cool wing the flapping of his wings produced and buried himself further into the warmth of his father's frame as they lifted off of the ground.

He must have fallen asleep during the journey because when awareness came back to him, he was being set down on a plush, red armchair next to a roaring fire. When the hands left him and he saw Phil begin to move away through his hazy vision, he blindly reached out, grabbing at his pant leg in a desperate attempt to make him stay.

"Don' go," he whined, words heavy on his tongue. Phil turned, ocean blue gaze comforting. He knelt next to Tommy, cupping his cheek before running the hand up and through his blonde hair. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes with a sigh of content.

"I'll get Dream to get a regen, then," Phil spoke, words light and sympathetic, like the tone he used when they were all children. In his peripheral, he could see the masked man in question (although his mask had been pushed onto the top of his head for the time being) not at them and exit the room- presumably to get a regen pot.

He must have dozed off again, because the stinging of a regen potion being gently massaged into his wrists startled him. He whimpered, attempting to pull his arms back, but Phil's grip held steady.

"Shh, I know it hurts, Toms. Just a little longer, okay?" He nodded, trying his best to keep still as the potion worked its magic. Eventually, the sting faded, and his formerly damaged writs were healed as if they had never been chafed and bruised in the first place, if not for the cooling sensation that almost numbed them.

After that, he found himself being lifted up, prompting a startled squeak to slip past his lips, before he was set on Phil's left, head tucked safely under his scruffy chin. His left ankle was gently grabbed, raised slightly above the arm of the chair, before the vivid pink of the potion was poured on and he hissed in pain.

Phil's hands were gentle in their motions, rubbing no harder than they had to, merely making sure the liquid was applied properly. Nevertheless, a few tears made their way down his face at the sensation. He had always preferred healing potions over regeneration because of how soothing they were- it felt like mint tasted: cool and refreshing- but since he had no open wounds, regeneration was all that could be used. When the area had finally cooled, Phil began with the right one, starting the process all over again and Tommy clutched his spring green shirt in trembling hands.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Toms," he whispered in reassurance. The pain faded as always and he nearly sighed in relief.

Tommy shifted so he could rest fully against his father, shutting his eyes and with a mumbled 'I wan' Wilbs,' he nodded off to a murmured lullaby from his childhood,

**Author's Note:**

> ALSO I've had quite a bit of this story planned out for a while now, and I planned the Phil killing Wilbur part before the sixteenth even happened and now I want to scream. Apollo has gifted me with the curse of prophecy far too many times and I would like him to stop
> 
> and if you couldn't tell, hair play (can I call it that? is that weird? whatever, that's what I'm calling it) makes me ~SOFT~ it's just too good and none of you can stop me from writing more with my evil little fingers
> 
> ALSO (again) I HAVE A QUESTION. I've been thinking about writing a series of oneshots about this series from when the sleepy bois were younger and all lived together with Phil? I just think it would be cute and help expand on some of the references characters make to the past. Would that be something y'all would wanna read?


End file.
